“Do you know there’ve been three reporters here already while you’ve been out?” said George gloomily. Cynthia having refused to allow a single one of them to set foot inside the house, it had fallen to George to get rid of them; that was why he was gloomy. “Good enough!” stated Mr. Doyle with satisfaction. “The leaven is beginning to work. Three, did you say? I shall be able to double my rates to The Courier soon, and get twelve mohair mats instead of six. What does one do with twelve mohair mats, Cynthia? You’re a housewife and ought to know these things.” “Be quiet about mohair mats! I want to know whether you’re going to tell Mr. Priestley the truth?” “No,” said her husband firmly. “No,” said Mr. Doyle firmly. Cynthia looked at George. “No,” said George weakly. “We don’t even know where he is,” pointed out Guy. “What’s his address?” Cynthia demanded of Mr. Doyle. “I don’t know,” replied that gentleman promptly. “Liar!” “Exactly!” Cynthia set her lips in a thin line. “Very well,” she said, just breaking the line to let the words through. “_Very_ well.” “Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle. “I’m afraid your wife doesn’t approve of us.” “I don’t think she ever has approved of me,” confessed Guy, not without pathos. “That’s why she married me. No woman ever marries a man she approves of, you know.” Cynthia laughed. “Oh, it’s no good getting cross with you babies. But I do wish you’d grow up some time before you die, Guy.” “Heaven forbid, my dear!” Mr. Doyle had drawn a sheet of note-paper out of his pocket and was studying it thoughtfully. He handed it across to Guy. “Do you think, Nesbitt, that something might be done with this? I purloined it, as one might say. It has the address at the top, but that can always be cut off. And it’s nice distinctive paper, isn’t it? I should think,” said Mr. Doyle still more thoughtfully, “that if a search were ever instigated in this neighbourhood for a piece of paper like that, there’s only one house in which it could be run to earth.” Guy began to steal jam. “You mean, if certain words were inscribed on it in block capitals, as I was describing to our friend the Colonel just now?” “Exactly. And then if one took a swift car (yours, for instance) and dropped this piece of paper inscribed with block capitals in a certain place where four roads meet, as you were also describing to your friend. I think you get me?” “This afternoon it shall be done.” “Now,” corrected Mr. Doyle. “That Colonel’s going to let no grass grow. This afternoon may be too late.”